


Memories

by Syrum



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Growing Old, Growing Old Together, M/M, Memories, Not A Happy Ending, Old Age, Old Married Couple, however, no one dies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 16:12:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14980793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syrum/pseuds/Syrum
Summary: Photographs are windows to the past, a way of remembering what was, and what will never be again.





	Memories

The photograph album sat beneath a thin layer of dust, particles drifting free when Greg reached up to pull it down to eye level; a testament to how long it had sat there, untouched.  He hadn’t been able to bring himself to look at it of late, and Mycroft had always thought him silly for keeping it - it, and a half dozen more like it, filled with mementos of a shared life together that had been nothing short of joyous.

Rolling to a boil, the kettle clicked off and Greg placed the album on the coffee table, shuffling through to the kitchen to pour himself a cup of the assam that Mycroft always liked in the mornings.  It wasn’t Greg’s favourite, but the habit was too deeply ingrained now, and it served as a reminder of sorts, one that he doubted he would ever be willing to let go of.

The mug was pleasantly warm against his fingers as they wrapped around the thick ceramic, mottled with spots and misshapen from the osteoarthritis that would be with him for the remainder of his days.  They hurt most mornings, cold and stiff following hours of sleep, or when he neglected to move them for just that bit too long. He’d had the growths on his finger joints removed twice already, the operation simple enough, but the recovery time was getting longer and longer.  He wasn’t sure it was worth going through it a third time. He was old, and the NHS could likely use the money it would cost them. They could certainly use the free bed.

Slightly bitter against his lips, Greg swallowed the tea down, desperately missing how it had tasted when Mycroft used to brew it for him.  In a teapot, always, and with such love and care that he found drinking the brew surprisingly pleasant. His own attempt was so far removed that it might have been a different type of tea altogether - he didn’t use the teapot any more, for starters.  It was getting too difficult to clean afterwards. Just one of many things that Mycroft had been better at than he, the things he missed terribly.

The list was endless, though he tried not to dwell on it, pulling the album into his lap as he sat heavily into the chair opposite their TV.  The sofa sat empty, unused in almost as long as the teapot now that there was only Greg. Not since Sherlock had stopped visiting, at least.

_“Why do we need a photograph album, Gregory?  Surely technology has advanced far enough by this point that such a thing is wholly obsolete."_   He had laughed at Mycroft for that, enjoyed the slightly disgruntled wrinkle of his nose rather more than he should have, and bought the album anyway.

The first photograph was of the two of them, a fairly terrible selfie, but Greg had loved the expression on his boyfriend’s face at the time and had kept it.  Had printed it. Mycroft had never particularly liked having his picture taken and it showed in the earliest photos - yet, it was a rare thing indeed that he ever denied Greg anything, and even in those early years, even with the awkward moments captured in digital and transferred to paper, his adoration of the man who would become his husband was clear.

_“Come on Myc, just one photo, then I’ll let you get back to whatever you were scolding Sherlock about.”_ Their first Christmas together; they had been officially dating perhaps six months by that point, maybe longer, Greg couldn’t really put a date on when their relationship had started.  They had dragged it out, skirting around the issue, seeing each other without naming it for months. It had been worth the wait though; by the time Mycroft finally pinned Greg down to ask ‘ _where are we going with this?’_ they were already so comfortable around one another that the relationship simply clicked into place.

Mycroft was the only one not wearing a ridiculous jumper in the photo - even Sherlock had been persuaded and coerced into a hideous green thing with an oversized reindeer knitted into it, albeit temporarily and mostly because Mycroft refused to.  It didn’t matter though; when Mrs Hudson had handed him the glossy bit of paper in the new year, his copy only one of many, Mycroft’s eyes were fixed on him and the small smile on his lips was as private and tender as any he had seen. His arm had been tucked around Mycroft’s middle, barely visible behind the gaudy paper hat Molly wore as sat in front of them with a happy grin on her face.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind after that Christmas as to how they felt about one another.

_“Are you taking more photographs, Gregory?  You know I always look awful in them.”_  A beach holiday in Wales, though Greg couldn’t recall precisely where - they had been so many times over the years.  Early enough in their relationship that Mycroft still had most of his hair, albeit receding slightly, and there was no wedding band in sight.  The sun had been setting, casting a golden hue over them both, making Mycroft’s hair flame red in the fading light. A mane of fire, staring out to sea and looking almost wistful.  It had been breathtaking, and Greg had snapped the photo as quickly as he could, hands shaking a little at the overwhelming need to hold this man. _His_ man.

Another page, another series of photographs - some of Mycroft, some of him, mostly of the pair of them together, as they had always sworn they would be.  Several contained those they were closest to; a sweet one of John and Sherlock huddled together conspiritively, Sherlock muttering something and John sparkling with amusement.  Molly and her first fiance. Mrs Hudson with her face painted like a ladybird, crouched down next to a five year old Rosie who had picked a blue and purple butterfly for her own face decoration, both grinning ear to ear.  Anthea, actually smiling for once, at something out of the frame. Their wedding.

_“If I can remain by your side until the end of days, then I shall be the happiest man who has ever lived.”_  Greg had smiled at that, blinking back tears as they moved slowly around the dance floor for the traditional first dance, arms looped over Mycroft’s shoulders.  He had tilted his head back just a little to press a small, chaste kiss on the tip of his new husband’s nose, earning a blush and a tightening of Mycroft’s grip around his waist.  Sherlock had taken that picture, without either of them knowing, and it was easily Greg’s favourite.

They had a wedding album, of course - Mycroft had spared no expense in having one made, and he had insisted on no less than three photographers at the event itself to ensure the photos were as perfect as they were ever going to be.  It had been part of his gift to Greg, and it was truly beautiful, the photographs better than any he had seen and the leather cover of the album adorned with ‘ _HOLMES & LESTRADE - 14th AUGUST 2019’ _in embossed silver script.  He couldn’t bring himself to look at it any more.

The final photograph in the album had been from their honeymoon.  Greg had refused to have any sort of hand in planning for it, in part because the planning of their wedding had fallen to him due to Mycroft’s increasingly busy schedule on the run up to having so much time off, though mostly because the schoolboy excitement at having the opportunity to do so had been entirely too endearing.  Mycroft had wanted to have a hand in planning their union, and this had meant he could without it impacting too much on his work or on their time together.

They had visited Thailand - somewhere Greg had been meaning to visit since his youth, and it had been just as wonderful as he had hoped.  The photograph was of Mycroft alone, sprawled out across the enormous king sized bed they had slept in for the fortnight they were there, fast asleep and bare from the waist up, modesty covered by a thin, white sheet.  The sun had brought out his freckles beautifully, standing out against lily-pale skin, and Greg ran his finger over the sheet of plastic covering the image. Mycroft’s expression was relaxed, serene in sleep as it never could be while he was awake, and Greg was surprised when two droplets of water dripped down over the image to pool against his finger.

Wiping the smear away, he carefully closed the album and placed it back onto the coffee table, scrubbing at his eyes as he glanced up at the clock, reining in the emotion that threatened all at once to consume him.  Almost eleven; it was time to go.

The taxi was waiting outside already by the time Greg had rinsed his face and changed his shoes, locking the door behind him and walking slowly down the steps to the busy street beneath their town house.  He couldn’t move as quickly as he used to, but that was alright; he knew the driver and offered the man a smile when he found the door already open and waiting for him.

Driving through London always took far longer than he would like, and he had considered moving more than once, but that would mean giving up the home they had built together.  All of the memories it contained of their joined lives. Of Sherlock turning up at three in the morning, of John dragging him home again, of Molly and Sally and Mike and the nights they spent drinking too much and laughing too hard.  Of Rosie, her husband and their three children. Of Mycroft.

“Oh, Mr. Lestrade, you’re early for a Wednesday - how was the traffic?”  They always greeted him kindly, knew him now, though it wasn’t entirely surprising all things considered.  He had never taken Mycroft’s name, just as Mycroft hadn’t taken his. They had joked it was too confusing, never knowing which ‘Mr Holmes’ was being asked after.  In reality, their careers had made the decision for them.

“Better than usual, thank you Lucy.”  He offered a nod and a smile as he passed, and she held the door open for him as she always did.  The place never changed; always clean, the staff always smiling, but he could see the pain behind their eyes.  He supposed you could never truly get used to this. It was a cruel twist of fate, he thought, that they had ended up like this.

There were flowers, and he always wondered where they came from; certainly not from him, Mycroft hated flowers.  Not that it mattered much, any more. He could hear a robin twittering away somewhere nearby, its call distinctive.  “Hullo, love.” Greg managed a smile for his husband, but the grey eyes that stared back at him, ones that had once held so much love, were devoid of recognition.


End file.
